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Sushi Night Just Got a Hell of a Lot More Interesting

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“Well, this is possibly the oddest thing this kitchen table has seen in a while.” Greg stares down at the clean oak surface. Sherlock jiggles one of the block legs, testing the give.

“Not at all. Did you see the experiment last month?” John leans back out of the fridge, holding a stack of tupperware containers. “The one with the socks and cheesecloth and congealed blood?”

“Ah, no.” Greg winces. “Can’t say that I did.”

“You did, Lestrade.” Sherlock pushes back to his feet. “I distinctly recall you shouting something about us having to eat off the table and slamming around in the front room for a while before disappearing to the shop for beer one night when John invited you over for Bond movies.”

Greg sneered at the man. “Must have deleted the experience, then.”

“Must have done.” John agrees amicably, a smile lighting up his face. He holds up three bottles and a smaller container to scrutinise. “Soy, sweet and sour, and chili oil. That sound good?”

Sherlock looked up and actually smiles, something that, for him, means a small quirk of the corners of his full lips and a light show behind his eyes. “As long as the oil goes nowhere NEAR my more sensitive areas, I’m fine with anything.”

“Someone like to tell me why the hell we are doing this again?” The greying detective slumps into the old armchair in the sitting room and snatches up the newspaper from the morning, ignoring the ‘obviously already outdated news, Gregory’ to flip it open to the sports page. “I didn’t think you lot even liked sushi that much, and considering the last case we were on - ?”

John cringes at the memory of the bits of Jeananne Halloway mixed in with the chunks of tuna inside of the bin he’d had to crawl into to hide from the madman he and Sherlock had chased to the canning factory. “Thank you for reminding me of that.” Sherlock brushes a hand over John’s shoulder lightly, as if to flick away the thoughts.

“We are only using the freshest ingredients, Lestrade. The best of the best from a very reputable fishmonger. I know him personally.” Greg turns around to stare at Sherlock for that.

“Let me guess. Got him off a murder charge?” John smirks up at the man.

“No. His sister accused him of stealing thousands of dollars worth of jewelry from her lockbox. I was able to prove it was the cousin from America.” He shrugs and plucks open one of the containers. “Oh, rainbow rolls! My favorite.” He sticks a finger into the box to steal one, but John slaps his hand away.

“Oi! You said you weren’t hungry?”

“I could be.” The playful curve on his lips, plus the overachieving tongue that flicks out of John’s mouth to wet his lower lip for the hundredth time that hour, stirs something in Greg’s gut, and he gives up on the paper to watch their interactions. Just like a married couple, I swear.

“Well, just wait for a few, you git. You’ll get fed, don’t worry.”

Sherlock’s brow quirks up a bit. “But I’m going to be restrained. How will I be fed?”

Well, that just shot any chance of Greg having a bit of a sit-down. He shoots to his feet and stares at the two men in the kitchen. “Whoa, we’re tying him up?”

John looks at Greg with a confused expression. “Of course?”

“Obviously, Lestrade. You don’t want your food on the floor, do you? I happen to be rather ticklish, and most likely would not be able to sit still.”

“Oh my God,” Greg breathes. “You have to be kidding.”

“Nope!” John giggles - giggles! - and went back to setting out what they were going to need. “Speaking of which, Sherlock, go get the rope, that’s a good lad, then.”

Sherlock smirks and walks out of the room, and Greg tries really hard to not think of the things that he’s thinking about. Like whips. Handcuffs. Bondage. Things that these two definitely do NOT do. He joins John out in the kitchen and locks eyes with the shorter man. “We are going to be tying him up. Seriously.”

John nods. “Yes.”

“Naked. Bloody naked.”

“Yes.” John has an amused look on his face, and Greg groans.

“Oh, God.”

John only nods, and Greg drops his head into his hands.

“This is going to be awkward. So, so awkward.”

“I don’t think so. This is what he wants, after all. And he trusts you enough to do this without freaking out.”

Greg nods. “Yeah, I guess.” Finally, a smile spreads over his face. “Okay.”

Sherlock sauntered back into the kitchen, holding lengths of black cording in his hands. “I should have enough here for what we need.”

John smirks. “Perfect.”

Greg groans, though he’s still smiling. “I can’t believe this is happening.”


John finishes the last knot and stands back to admire his work.

Sherlock laughs, a long drawn out noise that rumbles up from the pit of his chest and expands to fill the room in dark chocolate tones that cause tendrils curl up from Greg’s toes to fizzle in his scalp. The man is stretched out on his back over the glossy surface of the oak table, a white towel over his hips, his arms secured above his head with a simple looking cuff binding, the smooth black hemp rope standing out stark against his pale skin. His elbows are bent over the table edge and the whole setup is secured to the table legs. The position looks rather uncomfortable to Greg, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to be in any distress. In fact, the younger man looks completely at ease and can even shift his shoulders a bit, his head falls to the side, turning towards Greg without opening his eyes, his lips parting in a small smile.

“Are you alright?” Even the tone of his voice is calm, the edges much softer and kinder. Warmer.

Greg nods, then chastises himself for nodding. “Yeah. I’m...fine.” He swallows, and watches as John bends down at the foot of the table to secure Sherlock’s feet to the legs. The knots there are similar, winding up his calf like a cuff, but instead of tying his ankles together, John ties them to the table legs separately, with folded up cloth to put some cushioning between the wood and his skin. Greg turns his head back to Sherlock’s face. He still looks relaxed. Much more relaxed than normal, actually. Almost as if he really enjoys this. Greg suddenly feels wrong, like he was intruding on something very intimate.

“Sherlock, do you this?” He didn’t like how his voice nearly cracks on its way out of his throat, and he swallows hard to remove the dryness, then lifts his beer to his lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “I do. It’s...nice.” He snakes his spine a bit, testing the bindings. “The rope feels good against my skin. It’s soft.” He sighs. “Don’t worry, John isn’t hurting me. We’ve done this before.”

Greg nearly chokes on his drink. “You’ve done this before?”

“Yes.” Sherlock takes a breath, and the motion stretches the muscles of his torso and chest. “It’s relaxing for me. I don’t have to worry about moving, and I can just relax completely and leave when the world gets a little too overwhelming...” He scowls for a second. “Oh. Well, I’ve never been used as a plate before, but the restraints, binding, yes.” Another breath, and Greg is certain that he is going to have a heart attack because Jesus Christ, the play of muscle and skin over the consulting detective’s frame is driving him crazy! “The food thing is new. John?”

“Yeah?” He stands up from the other end of the table and looks over Sherlock carefully, admiringly. Greg has to close his eyes, because that look is almost hungry. What the hell is happening here?

“Don’t get me sticky, please. I don’t like being sticky.”

Now Greg does choke on the beer, and has to set the bottle down before he drops it. “Jesus, Sherlock!”

Both of the men laugh at him, though the detective doesn’t actually find it very funny. John walks over and pats Greg on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Greg, just take your time. I’m going to get things set up.” He turns at the waist and slides the light towel off of Sherlock’s hips and -

“Oh, God.” Greg can’t believe this is actually happening. Sherlock is most definitely naked. Completely bare. Tied up on the bloody kitchen table in the flat, his own flat, bare to his two friends, people he sees every fucking day. And they were going to eat sushi and sashimi and rice off of him. Off of his skin. His perfect, flawless, white skin... I need a moment. He needs a sit-down. Hell, he needs a lie-down! But as he turns to go into the sitting room again, the look of complete trust on Sherlock’s face stops him in his tracks. He blinks at Sherlock. “Are you okay with this?”

“Yes. I’ve told you time and time again, I am fine with this.” The look starts to move towards mild exasperation. “Now, either sit down or help John get everything together, but stop blathering and dithering about it already. I’m not in a position to smack the idiot out of you.”

“And pretty soon I’m going to stuff a gag in your mouth to shut you up if you start getting mouthy and don’t behave.” John walks over with a large green leaf and sets it square in the middle of Sherlock’s hips, over his not-quite flaccid penis. Greg has to close his eyes against the image of Sherlock with a ball gag in his mouth, hoping to high hell that John is kidding. When he opens his eyes again, John is bent over at the head of the table, and he and Sherlock are kissing.


Oh, that is new. Well, new., he should have realised it, considering Sherlock all but said ‘yes, we get kinky in the bedroom’. I mean, why else would you be tying up your flatmate if not to snog and shag his brains out? Relaxation, yes, but still. Bondage. Greg’s prick twitches with the first waves of arousal, and his eyelid twitches too, especially when the rather lovely little kiss turns a bit heated, hints of tongue sliding in and out of view.

Oh. Now he realises what he’s been invited to. God, I am so bloody slow, sometimes. His grip on the neck of the beer bottle eases slightly, and he slides into a chair at the table. The two men finally come back up for air, and Sherlock tilts his head up and smirks at Greg. “Now you get it. Took you long enough, but I knew you would come around to it eventually.”

“Feeling better?” John’s got his head cocked, and Greg couldn’t help but walk over and press his lips against the doctor’s, pleasantly surprised when John doesn’t hesitate to kiss him back. It was a quick one, and they pull away from each other.

“I am, actually.” Greg nods, and takes a pull from the bottle. “A lot better.” He sighs. “I’m to take it that I’m the third person?”

Sherlock looks up at John with such an open expression, and just that image itself is so stunning that the DI had to take a moment to breathe. John looks to him, smiles, and then back to Greg. “Sherlock’s been talking about this. About you. Um...joining us. Well.” He shrugs. “It’s a thing. Something I’ve been thinking about, too. If you don’t want to, then that’s fine, it’ll stay as just an eclectic eating experience. But.” He pauses. “If you’d like...”

Greg nods. “I’d like.”

The smile that alights on John’s face could illuminate the whole city. “Yeah. That’s great. Good. Perfect.”

“So, chopsticks. How?”

John laughs at Greg. “You don’t know how to use chopsticks?”

Sherlock huffs. “Oh, for the love of God, just use your fingers, Lestrade!”

The layout is stunning. Leaves are placed strategically on Sherlock’s naked torso, and the bits of raw fish and cooked octopus legs and rainbow rolls and rice rolls are arranged artfully and carefully on them. The tiny bowls of condiments are at his hips.

But the rope. The rope is still sitting in the back Greg’s mind. He smiles tentatively at them both. “Fingers alright?”

“Of course! Knock yourself out!” John smiles back and gestures at the array - and Sherlock. “You’re the guest. You can start.”

Oh, fucking hell, the implications there...Greg swallows his nerves once more and reaches out to grab a bit of octopus. The leaf shifts slightly, and the younger man twitches with a squeak. “Oh, sorry!”

“It’s fine. See, this is why I tied him up.” John uses his sticks to pluck up a rainbow roll and pops it into his mouth after dunking it into the chili oil. “Among other reasons, of course.” The wicked glance he sends Greg’s way makes the DI’s mouth go a bit dry and kicks his libido in the rear. He’s getting incredibly hard in his trousers.

“Ah, other reasons?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock snorts. The word doesn’t sound as condescending coming from a naked mad man tied to a kitchen table.

“Sherlock.” John’s tone is mildly chastising.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry at all. He smirks up at John in his typical way. “You said you were going to feed me.”

John blinks and holds his sticks out of reach of Sherlock’s mouth. “Now I’m not too sure I want to.”


Greg watches Sherlock’s face go from calculating to playful in mere seconds, long enough for John to pick up a shrimp roll and pop it in his mouth, lean down to Sherlock’s mouth, and lets the younger man lick it out from between his lips.

“That is so bloody hot.” Did I just say that? Oh God. Greg could feel his face heat up.

John giggles. “I know. I like feeding him. Something about it just...” He shrugs, something he’s been doing all night. “I just like it, I think.” He stays bent down over Sherlock’s face, and kisses him some more as Greg snatches up a couple rainbow rolls for himself, then debates moving down to the ahi tuna. Which happens to be down...there. His eyes rove over the miles of trim stomach, and he can’t resist lightly running his fingertips over that pale skin, watching the goosebumps rise in their wake.

The shivery moan that rolls out of Sherlock’s throat sparks another wave of arousal.

“There you go, Greg.” John’s voice takes on a deeper note.

“Oh, brilliant,” Sherlock purred. “That felt great. Do it again.”

Greg doesn’t try to lie to himself. He doesn’t go out of his way to broadcast that he bats for both teams, but Sherlock saw it right away, and now John’s in on it, too. And it’s apparent to him that both men want him, only he can’t for the life of him figure out why. He’s older than them both. Pudgy. Greying. Boring. But he really wants to do this. So he repeats the motion of his fingers, trailing up this time, and listens to Sherlock’s groan of pleasure, and then a wicked thought enters his mind. He ducks his head down and licks a stripe up the same spot. Sherlock goes rigid and shivers, a high moan coming out of him, cut off by John capturing his mouth again. Greg closes his eyes for a moment in a moment of disbelief, then gives up entirely. One hand slips over to pluck some tuna off a leaf that is not quite where it was before, brushing the very obvious hardness of Sherlock’s prick pushing against the leaf. Sherlock gives a full body jerk and groans into John’s mouth.

“Okay, love?” John pulled away to pick up another roll and set it into Sherlock’s open mouth.

“Mmm-hmm.” He chews, swallows, then tilts his head up again and looks at Greg. “Whatever you want to do, Gregory, you have liberty. I want John up here kissing me.”

“Alright.” Greg nods. I have free reign? He flexes his hand against Sherlock’s ribcage, dragging nails against the pale skin, and grins. “Want to finish eating first?”

“As you wish.” John licks Sherlock’s neck, right along the tendon, and nips underneath his ear, making the man whine and twitch. “Oh, God, John. Lovely, lovely John. Oh.”

“Oh, bugger.” Greg sits back for a moment. “John. Come over here for a second.”

The bereft sound that Sherlock makes when the doctor moves away almost sends Greg into a giggle fit, but he grabs John’s button-up and pulls him flush against his body instead, kissing him hungrily. John’s hands come up and fist into Greg’s grey hair and he presses forward into the kiss, taking complete control. He snakes his tongue in and strokes it along the older man’s mouth, exploring his lips and teeth and teasing a groan out of Greg. Then he pulls away, and Greg nearly makes the same damn noise Sherlock did. As it was, he was tingly and stunned at the display of...Three Continents Watson, indeed!

“Jesus fucking Christ, you are a good kisser.”

John presses his hips against Greg, and the man could feel the hard erection, even through jeans and pants. John leans against his shoulder and lets out a small sound. “And so are you. Where the fuck have you been all my fucking life?” He pushes away and turns to Sherlock again, nearly panting. “I fucking love his kisses, Sherlock. I love you, but I love his kisses.”

“It’s a wonder to me why his wife would ever cheat on him.” Sherlock sighs. “She’s a dumb bitch.” Greg blinks at the harsh word coming from the Holmes. “And you were an idiot for staying with her. I’m glad it is over, and I’m glad you are here, and will one of you just do something, already? Kiss me, touch me, anything!”

“Are you begging me, Sherlock Holmes?” John stands over him, chopsticks forgotten.

“Is that what I have to do to get some bloody action?”

“Maybe I’ll just snog the hell out of Greg and suck his cock, making you watch?” Greg twitches in his pants, delighted at the idea. John’s smirk is positively evil. “How does that sound?”

“I might scream, and then Missus Hudson will come up here, and you get to explain why you are sucking the Detective Inspector’s no doubt lovely prick while I’m tied to the table, naked, with food on me.”

John laughs, and Greg marvels at how...comfortable they are around each other. This was literally all fine. He grins. “Wouldn’t that be a sight.”

“She’d get my gun and shoot me!” John giggles.

Jooooohn, kiss me!” Sherlock’s reduced to whining, apparently.

“Alright, calm down you big whiny brat, before I gag you.” He plucks up a slice of tuna and pops it into his mouth. “I’m coming.”

“You will be later.”

Greg goggles at the innuendo. Sherlock just used an innuendo. Oh, Lord above. He covers his mouth with a hand to stop himself from laughing out loud. Sherlock shoots him an exasperated look and rolls his eyes. “Sorry. It’s just. Well.”

“Oh, just get on with it already.” Suddenly, Sherlock smiles, and all is right with the whole world, because it isn’t the fake one that makes him look like he’s trying too hard, but something small and careful and warm, and it ignites something in Greg’s chest.

“Alright then.” He decides to do something he’s wanted to do for a while, since he finally saw a clean and drug-free man on his doorstep at four in the morning with information about a month-long case that was driving him nuts. He moves up, gently pushes John out of his way, and leans down to look Sherlock in the eyes, those brilliant chameleon eyes that are blown dark with lust and sparking with energy and fucking alive - and smiles just before finally claiming those dusky rose lips, first with a couple light presses of his tongue that has Sherlock moaning under him, then with his mouth. The younger man rises as far as he can to meet him, neck straining as he pushes into Greg’s mouth with his own tongue, probing past Greg’s teeth and exploring.

Greg can’t stop the lust-laden groan from escaping as he brings both of his hands up to stroke Sherlock’s face, brushing calloused thumbs against high cheekbones and tracing eyebrows and faint laugh lines in the skin around his lips. Sherlock is responding readily, hungrily, like he’s parched and in the middle of a fucking desert, God, he’s practically begging for more! The Inspector jerks as warm hands find their way up his shirt, under his vest, and start stroking and kneading his ribcage. An equally warm body presses up against his back, and he can feel John’s prick though both of their trousers as the man mouths the nape of his neck, humming against the suddenly extremely sensitive skin. He has to break away from Sherlock for a moment. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, John!” His hands skitter down to Sherlock’s bound arms, and run up to his elbows to grip as John rolls his hips against his arse and growls deep in his throat.

“Been wanting this for awhile, Greg. Since I saw you, actually. Sherlock, too. Fuck, he wants to be in the middle of us, me fucking him from behind while you jerk him off and mark his pretty pale neck.” John’s hips jerk forward, pressing Greg down further, displacing the salmon rolls. “I want to watch you fuck him until he can’t even speak.” John sinks his teeth softly into Greg’s neck. “Fuck, I want you.”

Sherlock’s gasping for air, his eyes wide and locked onto Greg’s as he whines, his voice going up an octave. “Argh, fuck, somebody’s got to touch me. Please, oh, I’ll do anything, dishes, laundry, sing Ave Maria in Russian, Swahili, whatever you want! I’ll hoover, I’ll suck you both until you come on my face, Jesus, just touch me!”

The words break something in Greg’s brain, or maybe it was the beer, or John’s teeth nipping and biting along the tendon of his neck while the man bloody ruts him into the table and Sherlock, but it’s enough. It’s enough to stop the wishy-washy-I-shouldn’t-be-doing-this-with-coworkers nagging at the back of his mind. He growls and bucks up, pushing John away from him. “Are we saving any of this?” His hands flap ineffectually at the sushi, and John shakes his head once, tersely.


“Good.” Greg pushes the leftovers onto the floor and dips his head to take one of Sherlock’s nipples into his mouth, pressing with his tongue. By the way Sherlock squirms and bucks, Greg could tell they are sensitive, very much so, and Greg smears his left hand up to the other one and flicks it a bit with his finger, earning him a yelp.

“Oh, God, Greg, fuck, oh hell, lovely!” Sherlock’s babbling now, saying words just so that he can focus his attention on something. Greg grins.

“John, give him something to do with that mouth so he shuts up.”

Sherlock jerks beneath his mouth as John growls, “Oh, gladly.”

Greg ignores the happy little moan that Sherlock lets out, muffled by what had to be John’s splendid mouth, and continues his attack on the younger man’s chest, sucking a dark mark just over the nipple he had just been teasing with his tongue. He and John are side by side now, the doctor smoothing his hands over Sherlock’s trapped arms and snogging him senseless between muttering filthy words and nipping little bites up and down that wickedly long neck. Bound as he was, Sherlock can do nothing but squirm and moan and hum, his words gone from his sharp mind.

Greg starts moving down, licking a path down Sherlock’s midline, tracing the tense lean muscle with just the very tip of his tongue, relishing the little twitches of the pale skin at his mercy. He closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the feeling, tasting Sherlock’s skin, pressing his lips against his abdomen and then resting his cheek against the warmth. “Oh, you are so beautiful, Sherlock. So fucking beautiful.”

“Ah!” Sherlock gasps at a particularly hard bite from John. “Well, considering the angle of your head, you are - oh, GOD, John - you are looking right at my penis.”

“Got my eyes closed,” Greg hums.

“Whatever for, you daft man?” Sherlock bucks his hips up, dislodging Greg.

He can’t help but laugh. “Like listening to John take you apart one kiss at a time.”

“Ooooh, do that again, John - and Greg, open your bloody eyes and please take the damned leaf off before I do something drastic!”

Greg opens his eyes and is met with a soft dusting of dark hair just below Sherlock’s navel, and a very, very erect prick. “Oh, lovely,” he breathes, and the prick twitches almost as if it is responding to the words.

“Oh, God. Greg.” Sherlock’s moaning, his whole body undulating. “John, Greg, both of you brilliant bastards.” He takes a deep breath as Greg reaches out and snags away the ahi tuna and throws the whole thing on the floor, exposing him fully. And yes, oh yes, it’s a very beautiful cock. Greg wraps his hand around the base and lifts it up, squeezing lightly and watching a small bead of pre-come form right at the slit. Sherlock shivers violently. “Oh God. Oh, Jesus. Please!”

“Please what, love?” John’s pressing against Greg’s side, now, his mouth where the inspector’s was a minute before.

“Please...oh, please. Now.”

Greg knows what Sherlock wants. He’s about to duck his head down when a hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Tell us what you want, love. Use your words.” The soft words are emphasized by the dark, hungry tone in the man’s voice, and his hand flexes on Greg’s shoulder.

“Oh, fuck.” Sherlock takes another breath. “Suck me.”

John’s hand releases Greg. “Alright, then. Good. Go ahead, Greg.”

For a moment, he wants to ask if this was common, John giving orders like this in bed...well, on the table...oh hell, he gives up - but he decides he really doesn’t give a shit, because the mere thought that he was just given permission to suck someone off makes him harden even further in his pants, and how am I even still able to think? My fucking trousers are so tight right now that I’m sure blood flow is being cut off. I might die from this. He trails his fingers in the dark hair at the base of Sherlock’s prick and then lowers his head down and takes him into his mouth, as far as he could, deciding not to tease the poor man any further in case it’s possible that humans could actually explode. God knows he was close to spontaneously combusting himself. And then his brain shuts off, because hot soft hard skin in my mouth.

The wickedly deep growl that rumbles out of Sherlock’s chest set Greg into motion. The feel of the cock in his mouth is incendiary and ignites a hot coil deep in his gut. His hand is still fisted around the base, and as he draws his lips up the shaft, he presses down with that hand, and Sherlock keens above him. Now he can hear John too, mouthing at Sherlock’s stomach hungrily and humming against skin drawn tight every time Sherlock arches under the dual attack.

“Oh, shit. Oh, God. That feels...sooooo good. Oh, Lord on high, hnnnng...” Sherlock is struggling now, his hips shifting and jerking up, pushing his cock deeper into Greg’s mouth. Greg tries to swallow when the head presses up against the back of his throat, and Sherlock lets out a great shout and shivers, keeping up a nonsensical string of words in not-sentences that shoots straight through Greg. “Please, yes, perfect, brilliant, ooooh yes, don’t fucking stop, mmmm...”

Greg blinks and finds a good rhythm with his hands and mouth, his tongue sliding along the hard shaft, swirling around the head when he pulls back to take a breath, then pressing on the underside as he slides his mouth back down to his curled fingers. In no time, he has Sherlock begging, no longer even talking but making desperate noise in between ragged sounding gasps. He thinks he’s doing fantastic, seeing as he hasn’t given a man head since his stag do, and even that had been nothing more than a quickie in the pub lavatory... His hips jerk as he felt hands - John’s hands, for fuck’s sake! - scrabbling at his belt. He pulls off Sherlock completely and sucks in enough breath to ask what John is doing, but one hand leaves his zipper and threads into his salt-and-pepper hair to push his head back down onto Sherlock’s cock.

“Don’t worry about me, Greg, just suck him.”

Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Greg does as he was told, taking Sherlock into his mouth once more and tries not to think about the hot hands that are flicking at his belt, undoing the buckle and buttons, then the zip is down and his trousers slide down his hips with help from those hands. He lifts his head again and groans as John drags one strong hand over the front of his pants, over his straining and aching cock. Then the pants are gone, and he’s bare to the world - well, to John and Sherlock. But they are his world, aren’t they? At least right now. Greg drops his forehead to Sherlock’s hip and whines.

Sherlock groaned lustily above them, and hums in pleasure. “Oh, yes John!

Greg takes a moment to glance up at the detective’s face and is absolutely floored at the open, wanton, greedy need he sees in his darkened eyes. The older man can barely even see any sort of colour past his pupils. His normally flawless pale skin is mottled rose, flush with heat and sweaty, and his lips are bitten and kiss-swollen. As he watches, Sherlock sinks his teeth back into his lower lip and growls.

“Greg, God, please. Do something!”

That something, apparently, is to hiss, a firestorm flairing to life in his loins as John leans against his rear again, his hand wrapping around Greg’s stiff prick, only this time Greg can feel no clothing between them. As a matter of fact, what he can feel is John’s cock, thick and long and slick, sliding up along his right arsecheek. Slick. Greg’s overheated and cross-wired brain instantly blinks into life and squawks about chili oil. "Uh, John, where -?"

“Oh, hell no. Greg, don’t even - I did not - the condiments are in the sink.” John - sweet, lovely, blessedly dangerous John - snorts out a laugh and pats Greg’s bare hip lightly. “It’s lube. Now, stop thinking, or I’m going to untie our dinner plate and he’s going to take you apart one molecule at a time.”

As amazing as that sounds, all Greg wants to do right now is get off. “Later?”

John groans with a sudden flare of lust and ruts hard up against him. “Oh, God, yes, later. Right now, just fucking...Lord, you can’t take an order to save your life, can you?” John nips lightly at Greg’s ear and nudges his hips again. “Here.” His breath comes out ragged as he flips something open with a crack and the hand around his prick disappears. The inspector is slightly embarrassed by the needy sound that slips past his lips, but almost immediately John’s hand is back, only now it’s as slick as his cock. “There. Feels good, yeah?”

Greg groans into Sherlock’s hip. “Yes, fuck yes.”

“Good.” John slides his hand up from the base, twisting his hand around the head, and Greg’s nearly knocked out of his mind entirely. “Keep sucking him.”

Greg nods and smears wet lips up Sherlock’s shaft. By now, Sherlock’s just a hot mess, his voice warbling in the higher registers as he jerks his arms in the binds. Tongue follows lips, and the detective torques his hips to get more sensations. Greg obliges, dragging his lips over the head of Sherlock’s prick and then he takes him back in, all the way down to the root this time, forgoing his hand and swallowing him right down. Sherlock shouts, nearly sobbing now. He can barely focus, though, because John’s pushing slick fingers between his legs, against his perineum, though he’s staying away from his arsehole. Why? The answer comes in the form of John moving forward and leaning down against him, pushing his trousers and pants down further, and sliding his cock between Greg’s thighs. The older man shudders and, instead of releasing Sherlock’s prick again, reaches back with his right hand and grabs John’s bare arse, humming around Sherlock.

“Oh, fuck! Greg...oh, shit, I’m close...” Sherlock whines and bucks, trembling against Greg’s other hand that he has splayed out on one pale hip. Greg risks another glance up that long torso. The madman is straining now, his head thrown back, eyes squeezed closed, sweat dripping down into his wild hair. His muscles stand out in stark contrast in the strange kitchen light, arms shaking from the strain of pulling against the ropes. Greg smooths his hand down to Sherlock’s thighs now, pressing his thumb hard into the tightly bowed muscle, listening to the completely wanton howl as Sherlock bucks into his mouth. He thinks about just staying still and letting Sherlock fuck his mouth until he comes down his throat, but John is thrusting against him now, making Greg shudder and jerk with each brush against his balls. Greg fumbles for the tube of lubricant, finds it standing between Sherlock’s quivering legs, and flicks it open with his thumb. It takes a bit of finagling, and assistance from an increasingly sweary and panting John, but Greg finally gets a good sized dollop onto his fingers. He slides his mouth off Sherlock again, and the man keens in dismay.

“Shhh, Sherlock, it’s fine.” Greg can’t believe how rough he sounds. “Oh, fuck. Hold on.” He uses his other hand to press Sherlock’s thighs open just a little more, enought to get his hand under and slips his slick fingers against Sherlock’s - “Oh, fuck.” He pauses in wonder.

“Oooooh Jesus Christ, Greg, oh, perfect yes don’t fucking stop!

“Oh, fuck...” One hand goes back to Sherlock’s cock, sliding along his length absently as his other hand explores the hard base of an anal plug that is...“Oh, fuck...”

“You like it?” John barely pauses his hips, but his hand around Greg’s prick tightens. “Sherlock insisted on having a plug in. He said you’d appreciate it. It's his favorite one, too.”

“Fuck.” Greg bites his lips. “Later.” He twists the base of the plug, and Sherlock bangs the back of his head against the table and he lets out a sob.

“Oh, fuck, no, damn it, mouth back on me, forget the fingerfucking!” His voice is high and reedy with want for air and lust. “Please, I’m so bloody close! Come on!

“Demanding little shit, huh?” John’s chuckling now, and Greg can feel it against his back as he shifts back and takes Sherlock back into his mouth. Not a moment too soon, either, because it takes only a couple more swirls of his tongue and a ruthless twist of the plug and Sherlock’s coming, his cock throbbing hard in Greg’s mouth. He can feel it hitting the back of his throat, and he backs off a bit so he could swallow as quickly as the taste allows. He can feel his own orgasm building, sparking off his synapses and shooting up along his spine as he carefully pulls off of Sherlock and drops his head to the detective’s quivering stomach. He feels aftershocks coursing through Sherlock, little twitches and jolts of the major muscle groups, and he nuzzles into the soft skin, whispering into his navel, just small things, the only things he can manage right now. John growls something low into Greg’s nape and bites hard, wrapping one strong arm around his midsection tightly and rolling his hips against him, cursing and licking at his neck, and Greg moans with the intensity of all of...this. His brain still isn’t working, and he mouths at Sherlock’s belly. The younger man flinches and whimpers softly, his breathing becoming tidal and calm as he shivers out the last of his orgasm.

“Oh, fuck, Greg.” John growls again and pulls the man back, away from Sherlock. “You’ve got me close too. God, you are brilliant, you are fucking gorgeous, fucking golden...” He trails off as he gets a better grip on Greg’s hip, his hand still working hard on Greg’s aching cock. “Oh, you are perfect, come for me, please. Come for me, Greg, you lovely fucking creature, you.” He licked a stripe up Greg’s spine and moaned. “Fuck, you taste as good as you smell, salty sweet, love you, fuckin’ come for me...”

Greg grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white when his orgasm blindsides him. His vision goes white and crackly, and he’s distantly aware that he’s making noise, but he can’t hear himself over John’s guttural groan as the doctor shudders out his own bliss. He can’t feel anything but the wet sensation of the lubricant and John’s come mingling between his legs, along with the steadily softening hardness of John's cock. “Ooooh, god.” His knees buckle, and he might have hit the ground. He’s not sure how he got down, actually; all he knows is that he’s on his side, shivering through his frankly spectacular orgasm, and John’s curled up against his back, hot breath ruffling the short hair at the back of his neck, shaky hand stroking his wrinkled and sweaty shirt. Above them, Sherlock is humming happily.

“Well! That turned out lovely and not at all how I’d planned, but it was grand. Now, can someone untie me?” He sounds absolutely wrecked, and impossibly happy.

“Oh, my fucking God, that berk,” John grumbles into Greg’s hair. “I think I’m lying on salmon rolls.”

“Probably.” Greg gets his breathing under control finally, and rolls away, groaning at the mess. “Next time, we are finishing the food before having sex, alright guys? Because I am sure I have a dragon roll stuck to my shoulder, and this was a good shirt.”

“Oh, there will be a next time! Lovely.” The table creaks. “I wonder, if I apply enough pressure to the legs of the table...”

“You will be going to the fucking hospital because Missus Hudson will murder you. Just...hold on.” John huffs out a chuckle and tries to fix up his trousers as well as he can. After wrestling with his fly, he apparently gives up and kicks them off instead. Greg laughs, the endorphins flowing through his veins.

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve done.” Greg stares down at himself and laughs again. “How did this happen, again?”

Sherlock wiggles on the table. “I’m starting to get cold. Quit blathering and hurry up!”

"I'm going to kill him, I swear. One of these days, I'm going to kill him." John groans and gets to his feet. 

"The faster you get me out of this, the faster we can move this into the bedroom. My bed is much more comfortable than lino and oak."

John looks at Greg, and shrugs. "He's got a point."

"Yeah, he does, doesn't he?" Greg grins, knowing John was just delaying. Unfortunately, so did Sherlock.

"I will not hesitate to send myself to the A and E, John."

"Alright, yes, fine!"

Greg shakes his head and laughs. 

This wasn't so bad, after all. A bloke could get used to this.